Funny how a caved in bathroom ceiling will make a man think about his current situation.

So inspired, I dedicated part of the afternoon and this evening, after my landlord came to begin remedying the problem, to continuing a personal essay on the whole phenomenon. Normally, I don’t at all believe in journaling or writing personal essays, because my life is boring, but life has changed for me so much in such a relatively short time that I’m afraid if I don’t start cataloging some of it, I myself may not remember.

One critical part of all that is that the past year, while it hasn’t been lonely, has definitely been solitary in ways others haven’t been for me. This has meant that I’ve gotten distance from a lot of the things – and some of the people – who made me angry or bitter leading up to it. That distance has helped me to sort of try to turn inward and unearth why I was so damn unhappy in Illinois.

This isn’t the essay I wrote today, and it isn’t the best essay I’ve written since my exile, but it is one I’m comfortable showing. I wrote it before returning, and the strange feeling of melancholy ended up being prescient.